Technology has overtaken the mechanical chronometer, but nothing can ever replace the romance of the pocket watch.

What could broadcasters and railroad train crews possibly have in common?

Well, from the day they signed on in their respective professions, they were both obliged to become almost obsessed with timekeeping. Be it a clock on a studio wall, or a watch on the wrist or in the pocket, being precisely on time became the focus of their working lives.

I well recall the speech I was subjected to upon meeting my new boss at CBC Radio in Sydney, NS, 55 years ago… "If you're late the first time, we'll forgive you. The second time we'll have a long chat, the theme of which will be the connection between punctuality and professionalism and the third time don't even bother to come in. We'll mail you the contents of your desk drawer and whatever money we owe you."

Message received loud and clear!

Broadcasters were encouraged to be early; but train crews never.

I became aware of train crews' obsession with time when, as a youngster, I'd watch the men at the CNR station at Rockingham just outside Halifax consult beautiful gold or silver watches attached to gold chains (or sometimes just shoelaces) and carefully compare the time. The habit rarely left them. Even in retirement, when a train went through, out would come the railroad standard watch to see if Number 9 was on time.

Those watches were the prized possessions of the railroaders I remember from the '30s and '40s. Pocket watches are rarely seen now, but in their day (1891 to 1969) with the exception of navigating chronometers, they were the technological stars of rugged and reliable timekeeping. They had to be, because early on, lives depended on them. Sadly, in 1969 they went into honourable retirement-relegated to history like so much else from another era by galloping technological advances. The battery-operated wristwatches that replaced them weren't quite up to the mark and had to be converted to quartz movements when these became available.

In the 1930s and '40s the few jobs available to the men of Rockingham were supplied by the CNR. Money was scarce and life rather quiet. However, I remember a caper by a number of thirsty locals that may hold pre-eminence in Rockingham folklore. A rumour circulated that a bonded boxcar carrying a consignment of full casks of rum destined for the Nova Scotia Liquor Commission was on track number seven in Rockingham yard.

In the dark of the moon, (quite) a few local worthies eased themselves into the yard, armed with hand drills and great numbers of milk bottles, jam jars, buckets and other assorted vessels. The plan was to drill up through the boxcar floor until they hit a gusher…

And apparently they did!

At age 12, I was not invited to the frolic that followed, but it was reported to have been a bacchanalian blast of biblical proportions. That may not be an exact accounting, but I still recall the smug smiles that blossomed every time the tale was told, which was often! This great social event was apparently planned very carefully and timed to the second (t'was said) by a number of railroad standard watches. The culprits were never identified.

In the 1880s and '90s, railroads were expanding in all directions and the single track lines were becoming busier and consequently more hazardous. Obviously, when two trains were moving toward each other on a single track their movements had to be controlled; so a set of standards was drawn up for railroad timepieces in 1891 and became law in 1893. The standard watch was now a necessity and these were the requirements:

• American made-the CNR was importing Swiss models at this time, but soon switched to the cheaper and better American ones.
• At least 17 jewels.
• Temperature compensated-each watch was tested in a hot oven and an ice box and adjusted until consistent accuracy was achieved at any temperature.
• Lever set-the watch could not be set by pulling out the stem. The bezel holding the crystal had to be unscrewed and removed. At the one o'clock position on the dial, a tiny lever had to be lifted so the hands could be moved. However, the owner was not allowed to do this! That was the job of the railroad-approved watchmaker/jeweller who made appropriate adjustments once a month, when the watch was turned in for inspection.
• Timed to plus or minus four seconds a day. (Most performed better than this.)
• Micrometer regulator.
• Plain white face with bold black numbers and hands.
• Each minute of the hour numbered from one to 60. (This wasn't consistently applied till around 1915.)
• Winding stem at the 12 o'clock position.

The first watch approved by all American railroad companies was produced by a Mr. Webb C. Ball whose advertising slogan was, "Carry a Ball and time them all." Other watchmakers could smell big money and offered their models. Quite a few were accepted-including Hamilton, Waltham, Elgin, Illinois and Howard.

As technology advanced, train movements were managed by dispatchers in places like Halifax, Truro, New Glasgow and Moncton. They sent orders to the telegraphers at the various stations, who passed them on to the engineers. The orders indicated destination, mileage, speeds, time of arrival and messages such as "all eastbound trains except number 931, engine number 3534, wait at Truro until 931 arrives Stellarton." The standard watch was still essential-you could be fired if you didn't have it while on duty-but its life-saving importance was diminishing. Fashion also contributed to their decline. Wristwatches were becoming all the rage. Modern men's suits no longer included a vest over which a gold chain could be draped, and dress trousers no longer featured a watch pocket.

Today they hide in bureau drawers under the socks and handkerchiefs, or languish in safety deposit boxes. Great Granddad would not be amused!

Don Tremaine is a retired CBC Radio host. He bides his time in Dartmouth, NS.